


Life in Future Tense

by flibbertygigget



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Community: watsons_woes, Gen, JWP #13, Magic Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:32:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4335767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flibbertygigget/pseuds/flibbertygigget
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now I could only hope that I could counteract my own words.</p><p>JWP #13: A Tale Foretold. Watson comes across the first thing he ever wrote as a youth. It turns out to be prophetic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life in Future Tense

I had no idea whether I controlled the future or the future controlled me. It had taken the sheer improbability of the events in my life to convince me that what I wrote was coming true at all. But now I could only hope that the former was true and I could counteract my own words. There was a reason why all my writings since Afghanistan had been placed in the past.

1877 had not been a good year for me. Though the end of my medical schooling was in sight, I had been struck with the most profound melancholy with the death of my elder brother. Though we had not been close, Harry still commanded my love and respect in my eyes, and it had wounded me greatly to watch him spiral down into the bottle, stubbornly resisting my overtures and attempts to help. It was in this attitude that I began to write.

My stories in those days routinely delved into the grotesque and obscene. Though I had little skill, the things I wrote were so striking that the few who read them sometimes likened them to Poe's works. I wrote of betrayal, beatings, poison, and deceit. But once and only once did I write of my own death. I was paying for that now.

It had taken me too long to recognize that my dark imaginings were slipping into the real world. A friend had his fiancée cheat on him the same way as I had written. I read in papers of murders that could have been taken from my own desk. I vowed never to write again, and shortly thereafter was shipped out to Afghanistan. 

I only resumed writing as a way to immortalize Holmes' cases. These stories were safer in my mind; since they had already happened there was no chance of cosmic retribution. I had gone so long without seeing the consequences of my work that I had almost forgotten I was marked to die in a horrible manner. Perhaps that was my mistake.

"Holmes," I said, my voice remarkably steady. Holmes was applying pressure to the stab wounds across my chest, but I knew the end would not be happy. "Homes, give me my notebook and pencil." Holmes stared at me, lips pale and eyes wide with fear. "Now, Holmes!"

"Watson," he choked out, but he retrieved my notebook for me. It was soaked with my blood and the pencil was dull, but it would do. It would have to do.

 _As John Watson bled out_  

My fingers fumbled and the pencil fell from my hands. I grasped for it desperately, but Homes got to it first.

"Let me do it," said he. I shook my head and took it back, but my fingers were nerveless and failed me again.

"Damn it," I cursed, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Homes wordlessly retrieved it and placed it in my hand. Then, unexpectedly, he wrapped his hand around mine, careful to not touch the pencil.

"What do you need to be said?" he whispered. I took a deep breath and began to dictate.

_As John Watson bled out, he knew it was the end. There was no chance of him living through his wounds, no one to stop the bleeding or call for an ambulance. But then his friend came. His friend pressed on the wounds, slowing the bleeding down enough for John Watson to live until the police found them. It was all he could do, and he hoped it was enough. As John Watson lost consciousness, he could just hear the rattling of the police cab coming towards them._

It was all I had time for. Holmes slowly used my hand to create the letters I hoped would be my salvation. When he was done, he didn't allow my hand to drop, but squeezed it as though by doing so he could keep my spirit attached to my body.

"Why did you-" he said. I tried to smile.

"Just a first draft," I said. "Just in case." As I lost consciousness, I strained my ears for any sign that what I wrote had been true, but all I could hear was Holmes calling out my name and the sound of the wind.  


End file.
